


Restless

by OneLastMiracle (orphan_account)



Series: Untitled [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:26:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/OneLastMiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been too long. An entire week, four days, and eight and a half hours since John had taken his patches and cigarettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series of small drabbles, done for the 30 Drabble A Day challenge. Not necessarily connected, can be read as a standalone or small parts. All stories are not necessarily in the same universe, so there may be little to no continuity. Maybe some Johnlock, but can easily be read as just friendship. Enjoy!

It had been too long. An entire week, four days, and eight and a half hours since John had taken his patches and cigarettes.

“Go cold turkey,” He had said. “It will be much easier and faster.”

 _Faster_. Sherlock should have known the time would drag out, each hour passing slower than the last. The clock on the mantel tortured him, stopping its hands.

He needed to move, needed to think. Keeping still seemed impossible. He needed nicotine. It was half gone two in the morning and John had long since gone to bed. Now was the opportune time, if there ever was one.

Sherlock had considered reading, but the task required him to remain in the same position. An experiment would also demand a steady hand, which his tremor could not provide. Lestrade had no cases; he had called to check six times (every four hours, of course) before John took his mobile.

Now, left with nothing to do, he might as well look for them. He considered going out to Tesco and buying a pack, but John never did anything halfway; he had gone to every market and store within three blocks and threatened them if they sold Sherlock anything.

Briefly, he had considered walking the three blocks, or calling a cab, but that would be cheating. And he might as well make a game of it, something to occupy him.

_Where would John hide something. They’re small, so it would be easily hidden, but he wouldn’t leave it somewhere obvious. He’ll want them readily available. On his person then, or in the living room- where we spend most of our time. Probably in his direct possession, since he offered me a search. Could have been a bluff, but John’s not one to risk that when he has terrible tells. So the flat then. Where could he hide something in this room that is unlikely to be bothered by anyone but him, something no one pays attention to or would think to hide something- of course._

Sherlock strode to the hearth, smirking as he lifted the skull and both the pack of fags and the patches fell into his upturned palm.

_Clever John. You’re learning._

He settled on the nicotine patches, since John couldn’t be arsed to count the sixty some odd stickers (wouldn’t notice just a few missing) but a missing cigarette would be obvious, and he thought smoke would wake his flatmate. Then John would just relocate the stash, setting Sherlock back to square one with a lecture.

Given his withdraw and sensitivity, he probably should have only taken one, not the four he did. John would get onto him if he found out, but this feeling- senselessness, brashness- it _needed_ to go away. It occupied his mind and body, this craving. And he needed his mind to be free, unweighted down by a restless body. They allowed him to think.

\-----

John found Sherlock the next morning, passed out on the sofa with a box of patches in his hand, a trail of them leading up his arm. John counted seven of them. He shook his head when he realised his flatmate had nicotine poisoning, causing unconsciousness, vomiting, and the general feeling of death. Deciding that Sherlock had given himself his own punishment, John rolled his eyes, leaving for the kettle. He muttered [“The bloody git."](http://qwertyprophecy.tumblr.com/post/45683795390/based-on-the-30-day-drabble-challenge)

**Author's Note:**

> To go along with this work, the wonderful Qwertyprophecy did an amazing piece.
> 
> http://qwertyprophecy.tumblr.com/post/45683795390/based-on-the-30-day-drabble-challenge 
> 
> Thanks Milena!!


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